


Not Gay, Actually

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sherlock might be a bit OOC, but in a smol way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:25:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: After all, it's not always one or the other. A person can like more than one thing.John is fighting bi erasure one interaction at a time.





	Not Gay, Actually

**Author's Note:**

> I've read literally millions of words of fic by this point & I truly do not think I've absorbed this idea from someone else's work? But it's hard to be sure, so... if you see any similarities point them out & I will give credit where credit is due!

Sherlock swanned into the crime scene, his coat swooping behind him. John trailed at his heels, a little hop in his step to keep up with his long-legged partner.

“Oh look,” Sally sneered, “The lovebirds decided to join us.”

John rolled his eyes. Whenever he and Sherlock were together, people talked. Always would, it seemed. He’d given up protesting, for the most part. But there were a few exceptions.

Like Anderson, in a particularly nasty mood, lobbing around labels that didn’t really apply. His lip had nearly curled when John got to the Met and asked after Sherlock.

“I’m not paid to keep track of your boyfriend,” Anderson had said with disgust. John looked back at him mildly.

“Not my boyfriend,” he said plainly. But Anderson just smirked.

“C’mon, John, we all know you two are head over heels. I don’t mind that you’re gay; I mind that it’s _him_ ,” Anderson explained, as if that made it any better.

John’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not gay, actually,” he said with forced nonchalance. Of course that’s when Sherlock popped up from God knows where.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock practically dragged John back to some conference room where he’d set up the evidence for their case.

 

 

John snapped back to the present, where Sally was still chatting. He dipped back in, finding himself nodding along absently, until he realized what exactly she was saying.

“I know he’s good-looking, but Christ, John,” Sally was about to finish when John cut her off.

“We’re not lovebirds, we’re not dating, and I’m not interested in talking about my personal life with you,” he said bluntly.

Sally actually clucked at him. Clucked! Like a judgmental granny.

“You really don’t have to keep it a secret, John,” she said condescendingly. “It’s 2014, for god’s sake. Nothing wrong with being gay.”

“I know there’s nothing – Christ! I’m just not actually gay!” John’s glare quickly put an end to the awkward conversation.

 

 

That night, while Sherlock’s violin screeched and John read in his chair, he thought back on the encounter. The book’s spine creaked as John subconsciously squeezed out his frustration. Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and looked over curiously.

“You could tell me what’s bothering you,” he said. John started.

“Not like you to ask about my feelings,” John said fondly. Sherlock gave him a shrewd look.

“Maybe I should more often, or we won’t have any books left intact,” Sherlock said. John ducked his head and smiled.

“It’s nothing, anyway.”

Sherlock plucked at the violin strings and let out a long and quiet ‘hmm.’

“You shouldn’t care what they think,” Sherlock pronounced. “They’re all idiots, anyway.” The declaration came with the implication that John wasn’t an idiot – which was as close to a compliment as Sherlock got.

John fought back a smile before deciding to let it shine through. Sherlock looked up from his instrument, making quick eye contact that practically sparked in the cozy living room. But John turned back to his book, still smiling, while Sherlock kept absently picking out a tune.

That night, John woke with a start – sweating from a dream of how it could have been different. But it wasn’t different.

 

 

John slid onto the stool next to Greg. Pint already waiting for him, football on the telly – god, Greg was a good friend. Not exactly the “shoot a serial killer through two windows” type, but solid. Dependable. And always up for a drink. 

After a few, the conversation turned the same place it always did – a certain genius with lackluster people skills.

“John, he’s obviously in love with you,” Greg insisted. But John shook his head.

“I’m just the only one mad enough to put up with him,” he explained. “I’m not sure he’s interested in _anyone_ , really.” John took another drink.

“John Watson, is that regret I hear in your voice?” Greg asked facetiously.

John just pulled a face and drained his glass.

 

 

An hour or so later, he stumbled up the stairs to 221B, expecting to find the flat empty. Instead, Sherlock was lounging on the sofa in his blue dressing gown and flannel pajamas. John stopped in the doorway; his fingers itched to touch the fabric.

But he shook it off and went for a glass of water and a preemptive painkiller.

When he turned his back to the sink, Sherlock was only inches away.

“Jesus! How are you so quiet? John was genuinely startled. Sherlock just looked puzzled.

“Did Garrett give you good advice?” he asked. John shrugged.

Sherlock seemed frustrated – not unusual – but this seemed to be directed back at himself.

“Hey, are you okay?” John reached out and gripped Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m just… not good at that sort of thing,” Sherlock said quietly. “I wish I were.”

John nearly reeled in surprise. Sherlock? Admitting a shortcoming? Expressing a desire to improve interpersonal skills?

“What’s going on here, Sherlock?” John asked gently. “You’re good with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you chart my moods…” He trailed off, noticing a slightly guilty look on Sherlock’s face. 

“It’s important to note behavioral patterns,” Sherlock insisted quietly. “That’s how I know, for example, that tonight you needed Lestrade’s help with an affaire de coeur.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?” John was always in awe of Sherlock’s abilities, his attention to detail. But when focused on him, that precision was even more dazzling.

He realized he still had a hand on Sherlock’s arm. He withdrew it, suddenly aware they were standing only inches apart in the dark kitchen. It had to be after one by now.

Sherlock suddenly drew away, and John could exhale for the first time in minutes. By the time he’d recovered, Sherlock’s bedroom door slammed shut.

 

 

The next morning, John woke up snug and smiling. He’d avoided a hangover, and although he was puzzled by Sherlock’s behavior the night before, it felt like an auspicious change. A step in the right direction, maybe.

He whistled while buttering his toast. Soon enough, Sherlock flung himself out of his bedroom and onto the sofa.

“Must you whistle, John!” he practically shouted.

So the good mood isn’t shared, John thought quietly. You never knew when Sherlock was listening in, deciphering micro-clues to interpret every thought.

But there must have been some tightening around John’s mouth that gave him away. Sherlock raised his head over the arm of the sofa and glared.

“I take it your good mood means you’ve come to some decision,” Sherlock said. John wasn’t sure what he meant yet, so he stayed silent. “Who is she, then? Another top-50 name from the early 80s, no doubt.” Sherlock scowled.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” John said, leaning against the counter and taking a big bite of toast.

“The woman, John! Whoever you’ve been pining over. We talked about this last night,” Sherlock had the air of a parent explaining something very simple to a child who refused to sit still.

“Is that what we talked about last night?” John raised his eyebrows. “I honestly wasn’t sure what any of that meant.”

“Don’t be dull, John,” there was a cruelty coming into Sherlock’s words now. But John thought he understood why – he’d been jealous before, after all. Easy enough to see the signs, if you were looking for them. 

After some encouragement from Greg, he was definitely looking.

“Sherlock, there’s no woman,” John said patiently. “Haven’t you noticed? There haven’t been any women in a while.”

He waited for Sherlock to catch up. He was so used to being miles ahead, but he’d missed a crucial detail when hypothesizing.

“Is there … anyone?” Sherlock asked cautiously, as though he were walking into a trap. John laughed.

“Yes, you idiot, there’s someone.” John smiled. He was enjoying this far too much. He nodded at Sherlock to encourage him.

“Is it someone I know?” John could feel the gears working inside Sherlock’s head.

“Ye-es,” Now it was John’s turn to be patronizing. Just a bit – didn’t want to put him off, after all.

“John,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “If you have something to say to me…” he trailed off.

John smiled. Perhaps it was time to put him out of his misery. He took a few steps forward, Sherlock watching him warily all the while, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

John rocked back on his heels and looked Sherlock in the eyes. He seemed genuinely shocked; it took a few moments to fully recover.

“What about all those times you said ‘I’m not gay?’”

John grinned.

“Never said I was straight, though, did I?” He looked defiantly at Sherlock. “It’s not always one or the other, you know.”

It took a moment for things to click.

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed. “Bisexual!”

 

 

“Hey! This is a crime scene!” Greg sounded completely scandalized. John couldn’t help but giggle. “You two are a menace,” Greg complained.

Sherlock shrugged, while John let out one more chuckle before getting himself under control. Rare for Sherlock to indulge during a case, so he had to take advantage of the moment.

Anyway, it was just a peck on the cheek.

As Sherlock wrapped up some details with Lestrade, Sally walked over to John by the police tape.

“Nice that you’ve finally gone gay, but please keep your hands off him at crime scenes,” Sally said, not unkindly. She seemed to think it was all a joke that they were in on together.

“Still not gay, actually. And we’ll do whatever we bloody well like, and you’ll still need his help to find your own arse,” he bit out. Bit vulgar, but she deserved it, he thought. John could see Greg perk up nearby, wondering what the fuss was over.

A few minutes later John and Sherlock were on their way, thanks to Sherlock’s cab-hailing expertise.

Greg stood next to Sally and watched them drive away.

“John’s still in denial,” she said flatly. When Greg made a questioning noise, she explained: “Says he’s not gay.”

“There’s more than just straight and gay, you know,” Greg explained mildly. “It’s all a spectrum.” Here he waved a hand ambiguously.

Sally looked confused, still. Greg gave up on the gesture and threw his hands in the air.

“For Chrissake, Sally, it’s called being bisexual!” And with that, Greg strode away, leaving a puzzled Sally standing on the curb.


End file.
